Appendicitis
by gemstone1234
Summary: Pretty much what it says on the tin. Sherlock gets appendicitis, deals with it in a very Sherlockian way. I dont really get the rating system so I'm just going to say there's nothing particularly graphic in here, no bad language or anything really. Just the story.
1. Chapter 1

_This is just a supposedly short one-shot to try and stave off my writer's block, just in case any of you think I have abandoned my fics because I haven't. I've just reached that point where I'm not too sure where they're going but I really want them to go somewhere good so I'm just having a bit of a puzzle. This is serving as a welcome distraction. Enjoy and I promise; I'll try to update my other fics as soon as I can. Also, nothing to do with Sherlock actually belongs to me. No, seriously, none of it does unfortunately_

**Appendicitis**

The cool autumn wind danced through the air causing each of the small group shudder with the sudden chill, the woman's hair was blown into disarray, causing her to scrape it backwards desperately in an attempt to maintain her vision, and the tall man's coat billowed behind him, seemingly having a life of its own. Suddenly a gust of wind blew harshly through the browning leaves on the tall sycamore tree. A few of the more withered leaves spiralled down and eventually came to rest on the silent, but not peaceful looking corpse. A bony hand, belonging to the tall man of the group instantly swept them off in frustration.

"Was my presence really necessary on this case Lestrade?" asked Sherlock in a bitter tone.

"Well, do enlighten us to what we have missed then." The detective let out an exaggerated tone.

"And there was me thinking that Scotland Yard was supposed to be good at their jobs, this one is so simple even John could have figured it out given the length of time you've had, and he's received no training." The doctor, whose eyes had been transfixed on the wide and obviously terrified eyes of the victim, looked up upon hearing his name. Unsure of whether he was supposed to feel insulted or complimented he fought to maintain his face in a neutral expression as Sherlock continued with his spiel.

"Just start off with what he is wearing, a three piece suit, designer clothing. He's obviously well off to be able to afford that. The briefcase and the laptop indicate that he was most likely a lawyer before he… transpired." There was a sudden pause in which the lanky detective took in a slight, sharp gasp and his hand twitched as if it wanted to move towards his abdomen. His gasp wasn't his usual _I've suddenly realised an important detail which will allow me to solve a case_. This was something completely different all together, something nobody could place. Everyone looked at him in confusion except John; John looked at him with concern.

After only a moment Sherlock continued, increasing his previously rapid pace and his normally passive face had been contorted into a slight grimace and his pale complexion had become impossibly whiter. "He was not killed by a simple mugger who wanted to get his hands on the man's expensive possessions since everything of value is still on him, meaning that the murderer knew him. If you look, on his ring finger, there is a band of pale skin, where a wedding ring used to be. The white skin is fairly prominent, so the divorce happened recently, no more than six months ago. An angry ex-wife is looking pretty promising then but not necessarily. He has a girlfriend; she was probably the cause of the divorce in the first place. You can still smell the faint scent of female perfume on him. However, the most important detail we can gain from his person is the fact that he had children. There's a small fingerprint of jam under his collar from where he picked up his child to say goodbye in the morning and they grabbed his collar. He is a lawyer, during the divorce he would have been able to pull some strings to make sure he got custody of the children, a promising motive for murder. There is one last thing though, the footprints. It did not rain last night, and even though you lot have trampled all over them, if you step back about ten metres you can see the distinctive evidence of high heels walking to and from his dead body and there is the occasional drop of blood from where it dropped from the knife he was stabbed with."

Sherlock turned to head back towards the main road and John hurried after him. "Check his wallet, find out who he is and then arrest his ex-wife," Sherlock shouted over his shoulder.

"That was amazing," John muttered under his breath. The detective obviously heard him because a small, but oddly pained smile played at the corners of his lips. Once they reached the road a taxi seemed to materialise as Sherlock held up a shaking hand to hail it.

Once they were in the taxi, heading towards Baker Street, John took a moment to look at Sherlock properly in doctor mode. The man was sitting in silence, facing away from his friend, with his forehead pressed against the cool glass. From the position he was in it was hard to tell if anything was wrong because he could hardly see the detective's face. However, he could see the slight tremors rippling through his body and the fact his long arms were wrapped around his abdomen. _He probably just needs some sleep; he's been pretty frantic the last few days with the lack of cases. He hasn't slept in at least three days and hasn't eaten in at least two days. I'll see what I can do when we get back._ John knew that there was definitely wrong when, by the end of the cab journey, Sherlock still hadn't noticed that he'd been staring.

Under normal circumstances Sherlock would bound up the stairs, as if he were eager to show off his agility, and John would follow him at a more leisurely pace. This time was different; he plodded slowly up the stairs, wavering when he lifted his foot to make it onto the next step. John, who had waited behind to pay the cabbie, was actually held up on the last three steps because Sherlock had taken them so slowly, something definitely was up. The door to their flat swung open and the two men stepped inside; the detective began to slowly make his way straight to his room. "Hey Sherlock, are you alright mate?" John asked, realising this could be the only chance he got to ask.

"Fine," replied Sherlock without stopping, still managing to inject some bitterness into his tone despite his not feeling brilliant. This time John decided not to pursue the subject, as the bedroom door slammed he shouted, knowing the detective would hear him. "Please try and get some sleep Sherlock."

The moment that the door had closed behind him he collapsed onto his bed, suppressing a moan of pain, it would not do for John to know how much pain he was in. It was his abdomen, he'd started the day with a dull ache but then, suddenly, during the case and in front of everyone it had become sharp and unbearable. Of course, he had tried to carry on as normal but he had seen the concerned look in his friend's eyes. He hated that look, it was about the only thing that could make Sherlock feel guilty, he didn't enjoy worrying John. And he knew that he should probably tell John since he was his friend and a doctor but he couldn't bring himself to, it would probably pass in a few days anyway.

He had barely managed to finish taking the yarders through who had murdered the lawyer, the waves of pain had been growing in intensity causing his body to shake horribly. It had been lucky that a cab had arrived so quickly too, or else he probably would have collapsed there and then, in full view of everyone and John would have been worried. A feeling of nausea shuddered through his body, causing him to draw he knees up towards his body and he whimpered quietly, desperately wanting to keep the bile down. There was no food in his stomach to bring up, just tea.

John had ordered him to sleep, he didn't need sleep, he was Sherlock Holmes and he ran purely on tea and the thrill of the chase. But perhaps, just this once, he would adhere to John's request, he didn't want to worry John. Anyway, if he slept for a few hours then the dreadful pain would probably have passed leaving him ready for an interesting case or, when failing that, for an experiment or two.

It had been two hours since they had returned from the case and two hours since he had heard anything from Sherlock. John glanced concernedly towards his best friend's room; hopefully he was getting the much needed sleep the doctor had ordered him to get. John was meeting a woman for lunch, she was knew and worked in the surgery he worked in, she was on admin and her name was Rachel. What he didn't tell her was that he had absolutely hated that name since his first case with Sherlock.

Gently he knocked on Sherlock's door. "Are you alright Sherlock?" he asked loud enough for Sherlock to hear if he was awake but not loud enough to wake him if he was asleep. There was no reply so John hurriedly scribbled down a quick note telling Sherlock where he had gone and to get something to eat when he was up.

Despite his out of character desire to sleep Sherlock did not find refuge from the pain in slumber. In fact pain was the reason he could not sleep in the first place. He was vaguely aware of John talking to him but the raging agony which blazed in the lower part of his stomach addled his mind and it was too difficult to form an understandable sentence so he didn't bother, he just lay there. Then he heard the door closing behind John and was with it just enough to realise John had left.

It was at this point Sherlock lost all resolve to repress anything and lay, curled up on his bed, moaning and whimpering loudly as the relentless waves of anguish plagued him without consideration or compassion. He was beginning to shiver slightly, feeling inexplicably cold even though the heating in the flat had been on all day. Suddenly an overwhelming feeling of nausea washed over him without warning and he just ended up retching up a foul concoction of bile and tea onto the duvet next to him. It left him exhausted and he panted for breath. After a few minutes he either dropped off to sleep or fell unconscious, he was unsure of which it was.

Upon reawakening Sherlock felt impossibly worse. The pain in his abdomen was now so severe it was making it nigh on impossible for him to breathe. And the nausea was getting worse, not aided by the vomit which was lying inches from his face but he had been unable to do anything about it. He had a temperature too and, judging by the way all the colours in the room were blending together, it was quite a high one. But he was thirsty and that was his primary concern. It wasn't that he was slightly thirsty so he could ignore it, he was severely dehydrated probably because of the fever he was running. His throat felt as if it was on fire, his tongue felt swollen and sore and his lips were cracked. He couldn't bear it anymore. Slowly, he sat up to avoid losing consciousness and bit back a yelp as his abdomen protested against his movements, the pain causing him to nearly fall back onto his bed. He must have bitten harder than he had thought as the bitter taste of blood filled his mouth and he gagged.

The next stage was to actually stand up, and he knew this would be difficult so he sat there while the blur of colours shimmered before his eyes, before he knew it he was gagging once again, spitting the foul mixture that came out his mouth onto the floor. Deciding it was time he stood up, his abdomen screaming at him to stop, and then he took a step. This was too much for him to handle and he collapsed to the floor with a small scream of agony. He was not unconscious but he was walking the fine line between consciousness and unconsciousness. In the knowledge that he would not be able to get up again he called out weakly for John, feeling betrayed when his friend did not run through the door. In a desperate attempt to ease the throbbing in his abdomen and to retain some body heat he curled up in a foetal position where he lay, feebly repeating John's name over and over again.

The date had gone well, for a first date. They'd had a late lunch, gone for a walk in the park, got to see a film and then had dinner too. He walked her to her door, arranged to go on another date in a week at the same time and they had kissed goodnight. John was happy, that was one date that Sherlock had not managed to ruin. As he walked through the door he was struck by how silent the flat was, it was calm, something most people were so accustomed too but something that never happened in 221b Baker Street. In fact, it was something worth worrying about and worry John did, especially when he saw his note, unmoved from where he had left it.

Tentatively John knocked on the door, more firmly than before and called his friend's name loudly.

"John?" It came out more as a strangled cry of agony than anything else and John burst into the room and was horrified at what he was met with. The great Sherlock Holmes was lying, curled up on the floor, moaning in agony. His big coat was tightly wrapped around his shivering form. A thin sheen of sweat and grime had formed on his forehead, his hair was matted down to his head and he was shivering violently. His face was a sickly shad of white and green and his eyes were bloodshot and pained.

The doctor in him suddenly came into play and he rushed to Sherlock's side. "What's wrong Sherlock?" he asked, not allowing himself to panic but he grabbed Sherlock's chin and pointed his face to look at him, to make sure he paid attention.

"Pr'mise not be w'rried?" he slurred.

"Promise," John replied calmly.

"Mm sore."

"I know," he soothed, smoothing the hair out of his face. "I need you to tell me where though so I can make it better." Instead of replying the detective let out a loud whimper and clasped tightly onto his stomach.

Gently John began to coax Sherlock's hands away from his abdomen, removed the coat and jacket and proceeded to undo his friend's beloved purple shirt. He had descended into constant moaning, unconscious of everything except the pain which ravaged him. Ribs which far too prominent for John's liking shuddered in the attempt to breathe painlessly and his whole body was covered in sweat. Gently John began to probe Sherlock's stomach, and suddenly, when he reached the lower right side he let out a scream of pain. John's eyes widened in sudden realisation and he grabbed his phone, dialling 999.

Quickly he explained the situation and that he was sure Sherlock's appendix had ruptured. Things happened very quickly after that, it all passed in a blur. The paramedics arrived and he told them he was Sherlock's brother so he got to ride in the ambulance with him. Then he was at the hospital waiting, waiting for any news. Then Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson were there waiting with him, nobody said a word, not even the customary greetings. Finally a nurse came through and confirmed what John had thought, Sherlock's appendix had burst and that he had just finished in surgery. She warned them that even though the surgery had been successful he was a huge risk of infection and recovery would take a long time. John simply stood there and nodded while Mycroft asked questions that John already knew the answer to because he is a doctor after all. Finally they were allowed in to see him; there were tubes which didn't look right coming out of Sherlock, tubes needed to drain fluid which had built up from the infection. It looked all wrong. And his skin looked pale against the white hospital sheets but his steady breathing and the beeping of the heart monitor was reassuring. Then they were all sitting down, John was holding Sherlock's hand, eagerly awaiting the moment his eyes would flutter indicating he was about to wake up.

_**Voila, that's that one done. Hopefully now I can get back to my longer stories. I really hope those of you who read this enjoyed it and I will love you forever if you leave a review. Just so you know.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_Ok, I know that this was supposed to be a one-shot but I was sort of debating adding another chapter. Then a few of you requested a second chapter so I thought, who needs to do the chemistry homework I was set over the holidays. I can do it tomorrow anyway. Also, I still don't know how to carry on my other fics so this is a good procrastination method. So here we go, enjoy, and just to shock you all, contrary to popular belief I am not Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss or Sir Conan Doyle so I therefore don't own anything related to Sherlock, although, if someone fancied making a donation I wouldn't complain…_

**Recovery**

"What the hell happened?" his groggy mind demanded of him. For once, he could not answer. Noises surrounded him, blurring together to form one indecipherable mass of sound. The area just to the right of his belly button was throbbing with a dull pain. His mind was slow, he could not decipher information at lightening pace and he hated it. _Is this how normal people feel all the time?_ Knowing that they should know something but not quite being able to grasp it, like now, he recognised the sharp smell which was invading his nostrils, but he could not for the life of him remember what it was. But then again, memories can be triggered by smells, and he remembers smelling this before. Had he overdosed again? No, that wasn't right, he was clean, had been for some time now. John would be angry.

Something flashed into his mind, lying on the floor in his bedroom, writhing in pain as John probed his stomach, how shameful. Involuntarily, he let out a groan feeling embarrassed and just slightly humiliated. This triggered a response which he had not been anticipating, forcing him, reluctant as he was, to open his eyes out of surprise and curiosity. There was a sudden loss of pressure on his left hand, pressure which he had not noticed so he must be in a bad shape, and it felt cool. "Sherlock is your pain medication not high enough. Are you still in pain? I-I can go and get your doctor so he can increase your dosage if you want." The detective opened his eyes in time to see Mycroft as he laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. The doctor looked up at him, their eyes met for a second, John took a deep breath and then turned back to look at Sherlock.

"How're you feeling mate?" John asked, worry evident in his kind eyes.

"Jus' dandy," he slurred, still feeling a little groggy from the anaesthetic. "That's why-m 'ere." Instantly he regretted his words, they'd been said with more bite than he intended but apparently to his audience they didn't seem too scathing, probably due to his inability form intelligible words. Sherlock sighed, already feeling tired but unwilling to drop off again, at least not so soon. "Wha' 'appened?" he asked closing his eyes and then quickly forcing them open again, as if shutting them had not been his doing.

"You managed to get a pretty nasty case of appendicitis," John answered in as light a hearted tone as possible. "It burst and I found you collapsed on your bedroom floor, I called an ambulance and you had to get emergency surgery." The detective nodded, it at least explained the pain, there was a gentle pat on his legs and he prized open his eyes, which he'd unwittingly shut once again, and glared at his older brother, Mycroft knew full well he hated it when he touched him. "Sleep brother," he said giving a weak smile, devoid of any of its usual malice. And, for once, Sherlock thought that he might comply.

The next time he awoke it was just John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson sitting at his bedside. He was feeling a little better, in a way anyway, the effects of the anaesthesia had appeared to wear off considerably and his mind no longer felt like it belonged to a normal human being. Unfortunately the effects didn't seem gone completely, there was a horrible sickly feeling welling up in the pit of his stomach. "Welcome back dear," he heard the gentle voice of Mrs Hudson say as her soft hand brushed the matted curls out of his face tenderly.

"I didn't go anywhere Mrs Hudson." John smiled at this, unsure of whether Sherlock was being serious or not, it sometimes was very hard to tell with him. His speech was much better now, much more coherent. He'd been pretty hard to understand when he woke up two hours ago.

"It's good to have you back with us," commented Lestrade.

"I hate to repeat myself detective inspector but I did not go anywhere."

_Oh_, thought John, _so he wasn't joking_. "I don't think that's what they were meaning Sherlock but that's beside the point. Try not to get too worked up will you, your heart rate is still a little higher than I'd like it to be." The detective shot him a glare but John ignored him and carried on. "How're you feeling?"

"Oh, like someone has cut me open, cut out a piece of my insides and then stitched me back together again." This time he was smiling and John smiled back at him, glad that he was acting 'normally'. _However, he must still be feeling bad_, John mused to himself, _he isn't yet complaining of boredom or trying to leave the hospital._

There was the sound of a tray clattering and then two nurses carrying said tray appeared, a doctor following them close behind.

"It's good to see you awake Mr Holmes," commented the doctor smiling. "I'm Dr Franklin. Do you think you can give some food a go?" Sherlock shook his head firmly, glaring at the doctor. "Just try a bit, it's not solid food, if it goes down ok we can move you onto solid food tomorrow." Once again Sherlock shook his head but the doctor ignored him, nodding to the two nurses. The first laid the tray on the table next to him, one glace at its contents made the nauseous feeling in his stomach treble in intensity. The second nurse began pressing the buttons on the side of the bed, raising the back up. The detective began trying to swat her hands away from the controls but one look from John stopped him. Once he was upright Sherlock's eyes fluttered between the three strangers which were surrounding him. His lips began to twitch into a small smile and John groaned; he recognised that look far too well, as did Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.

"I never did understand it," he commented casually.

"Understand what?" Dr Franklin asked curiously.

"Don't ask!" John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade practically shouted at the same time but it was too late.

"Why people sleep with their colleagues, even if they are married. You two," he said pointing at the doctor and the shorter of the two nurses, "Have been sleeping with each other for the last six months and you are both married. And you," he said pointing at the other nurse. "It will be easier if you just accept your son's girlfriend. She may well be a bad influence but you know it won't last long, you may as well let them both enjoy it while it lasts."

"What- how..?" stammered both the nurses. Lestrade was resting his head in his hand.

"Yes Mr Holmes," said the doctor between gritted teeth, fighting to maintain composure. "Now you have demonstrated that you are very clever please demonstrate that you can eat."

Briefly the detective glanced towards his tray and then back up towards the doctor. "No."

"Mr Holmes…"

"No!" Sherlock shouted this time, startling everyone in the room, even John, who could tell that the outburst was coming. He sank back into the sheets, closing his eyes, his little outburst having worn him out completely, and his doctor, his real doctor not this imbecile who insulted his friend merely by having the same title as him, glanced warily up towards his blood pressure and heart rate.

"Dr Franklin, I think that we will have more success if you lot leave us be. He doesn't overly like strangers."

"No, I can't, there's been a special request to monitor him closely."

"Yes, and I am a doctor, I am capable of monitoring him just fine. Be assured, if there is a problem then I will notify you immediately." John began to turn to face Sherlock once again.

"But…"

"Is there a problem?" he asked casually, turning back to face the man."

"Well yes…"

"Because if there is then I could phone his brother, I'm sure he'll be able to settle things for you," John threatened, knowing Mycroft had already had some influence on the staff in the hospital considering the private room Sherlock had been put in. It really was amazing how quickly they could move when given proper motivation.

"Thanks," muttered Sherlock, still lying with his eyes closed.

"Who knew, Mycroft does have his uses." Sherlock's lip quirked slightly at the side and Mrs Hudson tried, and failed, to stifle a giggle. "Seriously though, are you alright mate?"

"Hmm?"

"How do you feel, be honest with me."

"Sick." John nodded in understanding.

"It's probably just the last of the anaesthesia wearing off but we'll keep an eye on it just in case anything further does develop." Sherlock nodded, his eyes still firmly shut.

"Now, I know this isn't what you want to hear but it really would help if you at least tried to eat something." Sherlock shook his head.

"Well, maybe we should think of this logically then," interrupted Lestrade when he saw John probably wouldn't get anywhere with him either. "If you eat it'll provide you with the energy you need to heal. The faster you heal the sooner you'll be able to work on cases. Therefore, the more you eat the sooner I'll let you back onto crime scenes.

The detective opened his eyes and glared at everyone in the room, trying to intimidate at least one of them. Unfortunately they all knew him too well and where able to stand their ground. "Fine," he stated eventually. "If it'll stop your nagging then I'll eat this rubbish that they try to pass for food. It looks like someone has already regurgitated it."

It was half an hour later John found himself sitting next to a very unwell Sherlock. The moment he saw that he was about to be sick he had instructed Mrs Hudson and Lestrade to wait outside knowing his friend would rather have as few people as possible seeing him in such a state. He'd paled, dramatically, it was quite impressive really, and had placed his liquid 'food' on the tray next to him with a shaky hand. Then John had been there, thrusting a vomit pan into Sherlock's hands then rubbing his back gently and reassuringly, making sure Sherlock was constantly aware of his presence. His thin frame shuddered violently under John's hands as his body tortured him, desperate to wring any and all the sustenance from within him. The hospital gown had opened slightly at the back, the man's white skin was covered in sweat and he could see all the bones moving jerkily as he began to dry heave. John felt truly sorry for the detective when he'd finally finished. He looked so young and vulnerable, lying back on the mattress, eyes closed tightly as pain from the surgical wound seized him. Sweat was forming small beads and flowed silently down his brow. He was shaking, either from a chill or from pain, John could not tell, and he was gasping for breath, exhausted from his bout of sickness.

Wordlessly John removed the vomit pan from Sherlock's feeble grip and disposed of it, allowing Sherlock a moment of peace to collect himself. Equally as quietly he opened the door and stuck his head out the room so he could see Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. "He's finished throwing up, he's pretty exhausted now so I think he'll be going back to sleep very soon. Could one of you fetch me a couple of cups of water? Cheers." With that the doctor slipped back through the door and into the room, shutting the door as gently as possible behind him.

The detective looked lost in the sheets adding to the child-like demeanour he seemed to possess when he was ill. "How're you feeling now mate?" John asked tenderly. Sherlock sent him his 'don't be an idiot look' which was merely a shadow of what it normally was, this one carried next to no venom and even Anderson would have been able to shake it off. "I know it sounds like a stupid question but I do need to know, it'll help monitor your progress. So I'll rephrase it for you, do you feel any discomfort, in any way, that you feel you should not be feeling after this procedure?" The detective nodded, still breathing heavily from his experience. "In what way?"

"I'm in pain John." John sighed, silently collecting himself. It was entirely possible that it would be easier to extract national secrets from a trained spy than to get his friend to discuss his own weaknesses.

"As you yourself would put it Sherlock, give me data. It would be foolish for me to theorise without all of the relevant facts."

This brought a small smile to Sherlock's lips, the smile people only got to see if they were around when his guard was down. Obviously this meant John was usually the only one to get a glimpse but sometime Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were privy to it too. But this seemed to get through to Sherlock as he was a little more forthcoming with information. "My lower right quadrant of my abdomen is painful," he managed to say before he let out a loud groan. _Trust him to use the technical language_ John mused to himself but he nodded in understanding.

"That's probably just pain caused by the surgical wound and too low a dose of painkillers. I'll see if I can get your dosages increased for you." However the sick man shook his head and the doctor looked at him curiously.

"It's more," he stated quietly, beginning to drift off as exhaustion began to run its course.

There was a gentle pat at the door and the sound of Mrs Hudson's distinctive 'yoo-hoo'.

"I'll take a look at it in a minute Sherlock, that'll be Mrs Hudson now with your water." He opened the door to a concerned looking Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.

"Is he alright?" asked the DI, worry permeating his voice.

"Ah, I don't know in all honesty. He's in a lot of pain, he may not have strong enough pain killers or there might be an infection setting in, I am desperately hoping that it is the former."

"Here you go dear," said Mrs Hudson kindly, handing over the water. "If you need a hand with anything just give us a shout, we'll just be out here."

"Thanks Mrs Hudson. He should be settled down soon so I'll give you a shout when you can come back in." With that he disappeared back into the hospital room, the landlady and the DI shot each other concerned looks.

Upon his return Dr Watson had to shake his friend awake. "Sherlock, I know you're tired but bear with me a couple more minutes and then you can sleep." John felt really guilty; he was talking to Sherlock Holmes like a five year old. Even when Sherlock was five he probably wasn't talked to like that. And the worst part of the whole situation was that he didn't seem to care, this great man with the genius level intellect was being treated like an infant by his best friend and he didn't seem to even notice. The thought made John shudder. "After that amount of throwing up your mouth must taste disgusting. Take the water, slosh it round your mouth and spit it out again." He obeyed, all be it slowly, his mind seemed to be somewhere else and he was only vaguely aware of what was going on around him. "Ok, this one is for drinking." Sherlock nodded and began to drink without even thinking, John felt unnerved by the recent lack of belittling comments.

Eventually Sherlock had drunk half the water and had apparently decided that was quite enough and just sat there with it. It took John a few minutes to realise he was done. It didn't take long for him to get his friend settled back in a horizontal position. "I'm just going to check where you're hurting, just to make sure there's nothing too horrible going on." There was a faint head movement that John took to mean yes so he pulled up the gown to look. The incision looked a bit red and inflamed but Sherlock was on mild antibiotics which would take care of any bacteria which had got in there. However, when John put slight pressure on his abdomen, a fair distance from the surgical site, Sherlock let out a yelp of pain. "Hey, shh, it's ok," soothed John habitually whereas his mind was screaming at him that this was looking a _bit not good._ He tried a couple more times, in different areas but he was sure now. Infection.

He forced himself to compose himself calmly, knowing that if he began to panic it would do no good for anyone concerned. He flicked through the chart to check what antibiotics Sherlock was on and then headed out to speak to the doctor. "I'll see you soon Sherlock," he said before leaving. "Mrs Hudson and Lestrade will be in here if you need anything.

"Please tell me dear, is he alright?" Mrs Hudson asked as soon as he walked out the door.

"He's contracted an infection; I'm going to discuss it with his doctor now, could you two watch him for me?" They both nodded and took up John's post, at Sherlock's side. It didn't take long to find the doctor, he was writing something at the nurse's station, chatting to the two nurses who had come into Sherlock's room with him. "Excuse me Dr Franklin," interrupted John politely.

"How can I help?" he asked, recognising him instantly.

"Sherlock has caught an abdominal infection. It would be good if you could prescribe some stronger pain killers, antibiotics and order a blood test.

The man's massive eyebrows rose as he scrutinised John. "I'll bear that in mind but you will have to wait until I do my rounds in a couple of hours' time, or if the nurse sees anything when she goes to take his vital signs then she can call me."

"I'm sorry, what?" demanded John, practically bristling with anger.

"I'm sorry Dr Watson, I'm really busy right now but I will review the situation."

At this John stalked off, already fed up with the doctor's incompetence. He went to stand outside, enjoying the fresh air and he pulled the phone out of his pocket.

A few minutes later he returned into the hospital and was passing the nurse's station when the doctor grabbed his arm. "I had a spare moment Dr Watson," he stated hurriedly whilst scribbling down a couple of prescriptions. "I have reviewed your friend's condition, I believe he may have contracted peritonitis but we'll have to get some blood tests done and wait for the results before we know for sure. Until then I am prescribing some stronger antibiotics and pain killers."

"Thank you." As John walked out of sight of the doctor he allowed himself the small luxury of a smile which soon turned into a frown when he considered Sherlock's situation. Mycroft certainly did have his uses after all.

_**So apparently I have gotten quite into this so instead of being a one shot this could end up having as many as four chapters, I hope nobody objects to this. I love reviews, not dropping any hints or anything.**_


	3. Chapter 3

_Ok, I honestly did mean to update this sooner, I promise you I did. I'm not usually one to make excuses because if I don't update then it is merely because it has slipped my mind or something similar. However, this time I feel I have a legitimate reason, to put it simply I haven't been well. I'm feeling a bit better now (thankfully) so now I'm ready to carry on. I honestly didn't mean to leave you all hanging. I would like to thank all of you who have favourite this/who are following this/who have reviewed. I really didn't expect such an enthusiastic response and, even if this sounds incredibly clichéd, I am touched. Reviews make my day (not even joking here) so make my day and drop a review after reading this._

_And now for the disclaimer: I know I haven't updated for a few days but during that time I was NOT (I emphasise the 'not') gaining any rights to Sherlock whatsoever. Anyway, if I did have rights to Sherlock, the world would know. Do you know why? Because if I did there would be a third series by now!_

**Deterioration**

"Oh, he doesn't look well does he dear?" Mrs Hudson commented worriedly as she needlessly tucked the bed sheets around Sherlock. Her motherly instinct screamed at her to do something, anything to help and this was the only thing she managed to come up with.

"No Mrs Hudson," replied Lestrade, only half listening to the older woman. He was fixated on Sherlock's silent and motionless form. He'd only seen the man immobilised a few times before, that was before John. _No___he reprimanded himself harshly. _That doesn't even bear thinking about. It's all in the past; he's a better person now. He's different._ Of course he was still socially inept, was harsh and had a god-complex. But John Watson did have an inexplicable influence on the man. Lestrade couldn't put his finger on it. It was as if he now had a vague understanding of emotion, of course he didn't feel the things himself or he was very good at hiding it which, in Greg's mind, did seem more likely. But this loose understanding of what people may or may not find insulting or upsetting had caused marginally less upset on crime scenes, for which he was eternally grateful.

Suddenly, the door practically burst open, as a flurry of blue scrubs raced into the room catching both of the room's conscious occupants by surprise. Lestrade looked on bemused and was pretty sure that it had something to do with Mycroft since the doctor was muttering something under his breath about how he'd, "Better not lose my job over this." After a few seconds the DI cleared his throat and the doctor looked up sharply, as if he did not realise that there was anybody else in the room. "Is there a problem doctor?" he asked in the authoritative voice which was normally reserved specifically for use on crime scenes, especially if a certain consulting detective was around.

"Oh, um, no mister, er, mister…?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," supplied Lestrade taking pity on the obviously flustered man. The doctor nodded.

"No problems as of yet, I've been told he has developed an infection but need to take a look to make an official diagnosis. I hate to be rude but would you two mind taking a step outside for a moment? This shouldn't take long." Once again both Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were banished from the room.

Once he was alone in the room Dr Franklin allowed himself a brief moment of silence. He really did regret coming into work today and who the hell was his patient? The man who appeared to have a brother who could get him fired at a moment's notice and a Detective Inspector as a close friend. _They don't teach you to deal with a family like this one in medical school _he thought to himself with dismay.

It wasn't long before the doctor left the room in a hurry, all of a fluster, in a manner which was very similar to the way which he had gone in. As soon as he had left Mrs Hudson dashed back to her incapacitated tenant, the man she doted on as if he were her own son so she could continue with her fussing. Lestrade got an overwhelming desire to take out his camera phone and video the whole scene. Unfortunately he was a good man and his own morals would not permit him to take advantage of such an unfortunate situation. This didn't stop him from committing the moment to memory labelled 'The time Sherlock seemed human.'

It wasn't long before John returned and he was obviously firmly set in doctor mode. He barely acknowledged the others in the room, picking up the chart at the end of the bed and flicking through it, his brow creasing in concern as he absorbed the information. "What is it?" asked Lestrade as he carefully monitored the doctor's expression. Mrs Hudson looked up at his voice, her worried stare penetrating into John's very being desperate to find out what was wrong with the infuriatingly brilliant man. "He's got a fever, it's only a low grade one right now but I have a feeling it's going to go up."

"The doctor said he thought there was infection?" Lestrade questioned vaguely to which John nodded his head.

"Peritonitis, it's the infection of the tissue which surrounds the abdominal organs. He would have contracted it when his appendix burst but it can take up to twenty four hours for the symptoms to manifest so it's unsurprising we're only just seeing them now."

An uncomfortable silence descended on the small room and nobody quite knew how to react to the strange situation. Sherlock was the epitome of energy, always moving and his mind was constantly processing information at rate that most people could only dream of. Only now he was motionless, and if the steady rise and fall of his chest was ignored he looked dead. His skin was close to being translucent, his dark curls contrasting greatly with his sickly pallor. His cheeks looked more sunken than normal adding to the general look of illness he seemed to possess which was worsened by the deep purple bruises forming under his eyes due to sheer exhaustion. If he was aware of what was going on everyone knew he would be humiliated.

The hours drifted slowly by, each waking moment was filled with the sound of the heart monitor busily beeping away both reassuring and irritating the room's occupants. John had been carefully monitoring Sherlock's temperature; it had been rising steadily until it finally settled at 40◦C. The detective had been asleep most of the day, sometimes he would wake up and he would be slightly out of it. The good doctor was unsure of whether to attribute this to the pain medication or the fever.

It was ten at night; Mycroft had just left having been called back to the office. He sounded annoyed at being interrupted during his visit to his brother but it sounded important if the cryptic nature of the language he was using was anything to go by. Mrs Hudson had left, having been encouraged by John, to go to bed and John had gone back to 221b for a quick shower and to grab some fresh clothes. This left Lestrade to watch Sherlock for however long it took the doctor to get back to the hospital. He didn't mind, he really didn't. He did care about Sherlock even if he did constantly insult his intelligence and deductive abilities. The DI was aware that this wasn't personal; it was just the way Sherlock was. John had been gone for an hour and Greg sat by Sherlock's sleeping form.

The room itself seemed peaceful, if a little eerie. The soft autumn wind was flowing by the window and the occasional tapping sound could be heard as a tree branch hit the side of the hospital. It was dark outside too, and the lighting in the room wasn't much better making it very difficult for the DI to read the old magazines the hospital had lying about the place. The world outside seemed to be moving at a lightning pace compared to the stasis within Sherlock's room. The general hustle and bustle of London was still very much present the other side of the window and medical professionals hurried backwards and forwards the other side of the door. It was as if they had been severed from reality and were suspended in some peculiar form of limbo.

Suddenly Sherlock sat up in bed, straight and rigid; his eyes were wide and darted around as if desperately attempting to make sense of their surroundings. The sinister calm had been severed in a moment. "Sherlock, are you ok?" he asked his friend, setting the magazine on the side, instantly forgotten. The reply was icy and measured a forced calm which alarmed Lestrade. Sherlock was on edge and could explode at any moment; the fallout could indeed prove disastrous.

"Where is he?" The DI looked on in confusion, marginally aware that the ever present background beeping was increasing in speed but he was too focussed on the actual detective to bother about the machine in the corner. His whole face was covered in a sheen of sweat and pain caused his face to contort into an ugly grimace that looked unfamiliar and out of place on the great detective. His whole body was rattled with violent shivers induced by the fever.

"Where's who?" replied Lestrade attempting to keep his tone steady and calm in order to placate the evidently delirious man.

"You know who I mean," hissed Sherlock, a hint of anger tainting his otherwise emotionless tone. What have you done with John Watson, Moriarty?" _Ah_ Lestrade thought, relieved that he now knew what was going on but his heart sank at the same time knowing this situation was going to be difficult to deal with.

"Listen to me Sherlock," Lestrade said loudly and firmly, demanding attention. "John isn't here but…" He didn't get to finish, Sherlock's addled mind was too busy processing the small piece of information it had been supplied with. John Watson was not here and he was unwell, John should be with him if he was ill, Sherlock knew that. Instead of John he had Moriarty as a companion. Logical conclusion, Moriarty has 'disposed' of his best friend. The flood gates were opened.

"You killed him!" yelled Sherlock, horrified, surprising Lestrade at the same time. "You killed him you damn Irish…"

"Sherlock!"

"No! You don't get to talk. You killed him, you promised he'd be safe if I…"

"Sherlock, get a hold of yourself," Lestrade protested, desperately trying to calm the man down now that he was painfully aware of the now frantic beeping emanating from the machine in the corner. It was no use.

"Why the hell did you kill him? He was a good man; I know people die but not him, at least not yet. Just you wait until I get to you. You'll be sorry you ever laid a hand on John Watson." The moment it looked like the detective looked like he was going to clamber out of bed Lestrade leaned in to press him gently down into the bed. This plan immediately back fired when Sherlock threw a punch in Lestrade's general direction and he narrowly missed the older man's face.

"You get your filthy hands off me!" Sherlock practically screamed bringing a doctor and a couple of nurses running. Once again he made the motion that he was going to stand up but as he began to lift his wavering form off the bed he let out a moan of pain. The small movement sent tendrils of agony shooting through his body causing him to curl in on himself to try and relieve some of the pain. He did not try to get off the bed again and the insults had ceased to come flying out of his mouth. Lestrade's heart broke slightly to see such a great mind reduced to such a childlike state by the combination and illness and the imagined loss of his best friend. In a way it was nice though, it was nice to see he cared and it was reassuring to see such a human side to him.

Unfortunately it seemed that even if he was acting human he did not enjoy human indulgences, such as comfort. Nobody quite knew what to do so Greg walked silently over to the bedside and laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He reacted violently, lashing out once again and this time just caught Lestrade on the cheek. There was no real damage; he'd probably get a small bruise but nothing major.

He began to mutter John's name, these quiet whispers soon elevated until he was shouting them, desperate for his friend's presence. He needed to know he was ok. It wasn't long before his hands found their way into his hair, he began to tug, and painfully twisting his hands into his curls cruelly pulling at the roots and the hair soon began to pull away. The nurses dashed out of the room at the unfamiliar doctor's order, most likely to fetch a couple orderlies. "Sherlock mate, you need to try to calm down," Lestrade tried to placate knowing he would react badly if he had to be restrained to get a sedative in him. However, this did not work and suddenly the detective started attacking his own skin. Clawing at it, digging his nails his nails in until he drew blood. "Please Sherlock, stop," begged the DI desperately wanting to offer some form of physical comfort but knowing that even an attempt would result in Sherlock attacking him in some way.

The two nurses returned, one with a syringe containing a sedative, with two orderlies in tow just at the moment Sherlock tore the cannula out of his arm. The detective was momentarily distracted as blood welled up within the small wound, glistening bright red against his pale white skin. The next moment the orderlies grabbed his arms, preventing him from causing himself anymore self-injury; be it intentional or not. He fought against them, causing whimpers of pain to be torn from his throat but he paid them no heed. The doctor made to inject the detective with the sedative, Lestrade feeling out of place and slightly traitorous for not attempting to stop them, when a familiar voice resounded from the now open doorway. "Sherlock? What the hell is going on in here?"

The whole room froze and gazed towards the doctor and a wave of relief washed over everyone, especially the now exhausted man in the bed who, despite keeping his eyes fixed on John, managed to weave his way out of the grip of the two orderlies. "J-John?" stuttered Sherlock, somewhat feebly causing the army doctor's expression to soften.

"I'm here mate, what's wrong?"

"I-I thought you were d-dead." He struggled to get the last word out.

"Why?" asked John, approaching the bed and sitting on the edge of it, gently pressing a hand to his friend's forehead. "Fetch me a cold compress would you?" he whispered to one of the nurses who nodded.

"H-he said he killed you."

"Who did?"

"Him," Sherlock stated shakily, pointing a finger towards Lestrade momentarily. "Moriarty."

John looked towards the DI with a questioning look. In response he got a confused shrug of the shoulders. Deciding it was probably best just to humour the man, rather than trying to persuade him that one of the people he 'died' to save was not Moriarty. "It's alright, he didn't get me. I was very much alive last time I checked."

"But… but, I don't… I don't understand!" he cried in confusion. His mind was still trying to process information but the fever was preventing him, confusing and disorientating him to a large degree. Apparently the inability to understand caused him physical pain, his hands moved back up to his hair where he resumed the pulling. His breathing was becoming more laboured so John made a decision.

Tenderly he reached out and took Sherlock's hands in his. It didn't take long for the younger man to release his death grip on his curls and allowing his hands to be extracted from his hair. "Are you listening to me Sherlock?" John asked kindly but firmly. Sherlock nodded.

"Ok, I'm going to give you something that will help you sleep," he half lied. He could feel guilt welling up from within him but he knew that it would eventually benefit Sherlock. Once again the detective nodded and instantly seemed to whither into the bed, looking smaller and more tired than ever.

The nurse returned with the cold compress and John took it from her after thanking her. There was a slight flinch on Sherlock's part as the compress was placed on his forehead but after the initial chill he seemed to relax into it, revelling in its refreshing cool. Sleep sounded good to him and he smiled slightly as he felt the needle slide seamlessly beneath his skin. It wasn't long before he knew nothing but blackness.

The room was tense as Dr Watson removed the needle from Sherlock's arm, everyone watched as the detective visibly sagged as the sedation began to take effect. John was not impressed by what he had returned to find and the hospital employees were very much aware of this as they refused to make eye contact with him. It wasn't long before he got fed up and demanded an explanation. "I am very much looking forward to hearing what was going on in here," he stated, lowering himself into the plastic chair. He folded his arms and propped his legs up onto the bed giving a sarcastic smile. "Which one of you would like to start us off then?"

_**Thank you for reading, I really do hope it was worth the wait. I shall reiterate what I said at the very start. I love reviews. I love looking at my emails and finding someone has left a review. I love reading the reviews myself. I love, when I remember, replying to the reviews. Well, you should have the general picture. Help make my day. Next chapter will soon be in progress. **_


	4. Chapter 4

_Um, ok, so it looks like my supposed one-shot has become so much more than a one shot since this is the fourth chapter and all. I have been delighted by the response this has received, I could not have asked for kinder reviews or more people to favourite/follow this story. I love you all, each and every one of my readers. As you should know by now, I love reviews so read this chapter and get typing. I love it when I see a review in my inbox. I feel like shouting out "YAY!" and sometimes, when I get a really good review, I start laughing because I'm happy and my family all think that I'm a weirdo, but I'm ok with it. I hope this chapter doesn't ruin it all. Enjoy, I shall eagerly await your responses. _

_I don't own Sherlock or anything relating to Sherlock. I dream of it sometimes but, alas, I have never been given the rights to the business no matter what happens to him in the end. _

**Blessed Unconsciousness**

The morning light shone through the blinds into the hospital room casting blocks of shadow on the sickeningly white walls. The doctor sat in the plastic chair, head resting on the bed next to the unconscious detective, but he was still very much awake. He desperately dreamed of his bed, back in Baker Street, but unwilling to leave his friend, either in mind or in body. But he was so tired, he hadn't slept in far too long and that night had been hellish, that was the only way they could describe it.

After they had put Sherlock under they'd attempted to get Sherlock's temperature down slightly and they'd been partially successful. At about two in the morning when they realised their mistake the hard way. The volume of sedative they used should have been enough to keep Sherlock unconscious for about twelve hours but they'd forgotten about one thing, and that was his past. It was when Sherlock started shrieking at the Moriarty in front of him that nobody else could see, without any warning, that Sherlock's drug habits must have been much more serious than he'd first thought. The idiot of a man had built up a resistance to the sedative and he'd be damned if he let anyone get close enough to him to inject him with more sedative. The man was so delirious he didn't even recognise John, accusing him of being one of Moriarty's idiotic henchmen who didn't 'have the brain capacity to achieve anything in his life by himself so blindly followed a madman hoping in vain to give his worthless life some meaning.' For once John knew what it was to be truly hated by his best friend and realised he did not envy Anderson or Donovan in the slightest.

Then there had been a brief moment of calm, Sherlock just laid there, glassy eyes flickering backwards and forwards over and over as if he were cataloguing every indentation and mark on the ceiling above his bed. The sweat was pouring off of him, soaking the sheets underneath him and a few specks of blood were seeping through the front of his gown from where his thrashing had caused some of the stitches to tear. That moment was eerie, it was as if the silence was thick around them, like a fog, and even though it only lasted a moment in reality, it seemed as if time itself decided to stop and take a rest, leaving them suspended in time. But then the frantic behaviour that had been going on a moment before started again. Sherlock started shouting, this time not about Moriarty, but his reactions were just as bad.

The screams penetrated John's very being, chilling him to the core. Sherlock didn't scream in fear, he didn't get scared and he most certainly did not lose his cool. But here he was, reduced to a quivering wreck because he was imagining the walls were slowly closing in on him, it was as if he were severely claustrophobic which John was well aware he was not. Their adventures had resulted in him crawling through one too many narrow pipes with the detective after a criminal for his liking. It was when he started to hyperventilate, desperately gasping for air that John decided they had to take immediate action. The rasping sounds which were coming from his throat sounded painful and the machine was registering his sats were dropping far too low.

By this time Sherlock was weakened incredibly which seemed to make him marginally more lucid. It wasn't a huge change but it was enough for him to register John's gentle yet worried face. "J-John, you n-need to leave. It's the w-walls," he stammered as he tried to breathe heavily and speak at the same time. "Shh, it ok Sherlock. The walls are fine and I do not need to leave. What you need to do is focus on your breathing for me, can you do that?" Sherlock shook his head violently and pulled away from John's hand as he laid it on his shoulder as an attempt at comfort.

"N-no, g-get away from me!" he shouted completely confusing John. Surely he couldn't forget who he was that quickly.

"Sherlock, mate, it's me John."

"John? Y-you need t-to g-get out."

"Do you trust me Sherlock?" The detective nodded, looking around frantically as the walls seemed to get in closer, trapping him and getting close to crushing him. "Ok, well I need you to trust me when I say these walls are not getting closer. It's your mind playing tricks on you. Do you believe me?" A few moments passed as Sherlock stared at John disbelievingly, as if John had just told him he'd thrown the severed head Sherlock had been experimenting in in the bin. Finally there was a brief nod. John smiled but then saw his friend's eyes beginning to shut; it wouldn't be long before he passed out.

"Ok Sherlock, I know you're not a great fan of this but I need to touch you, is that ok?" Once again there was a nod. John highly doubted Sherlock had even listened to what he had said but he no longer cared. Gently but quickly he pushed Sherlock forward in the bed, ignoring the stares of the doctor and nurses in the room instead only thinking about helping his friend, and slipped in behind him. Carefully he laid Sherlock against his chest, holding him in a semi-sitting position and began to take steady, deep breaths. "Ok Sherlock, I need you to try and synchronise your breathing with mine.

The next twenty minutes were peaceful, almost tranquil. The only sounds in the room were those of Sherlock's and John's deep breaths. It took a while for the detective to calm down enough to be able to breathe steadily but he got there in the end. A wave of relief swept over John as he saw the detective's eyes close, this time from exhaustion and not from oxygen depletion. When he had finally been swept up in the arms of Morpheus, which was a phenomenon in itself to John because such an event was so rare when the man was healthy, he carefully removed himself from behind the detective. He found himself covered in the other man's sweat but, for some odd reason, he didn't really seem to mind. As a former army doctor he'd been covered in much worse things.

The decision was quickly made to inject Sherlock with another dosage of the sedative so they could get his temperature down before another 'episode' occurred. Once this was done John silently stood back while the nurses changed Sherlock's gown and sheets but, for some reason, he wouldn't let the other doctor treat his friend. It was weird, he didn't know what it was, but he presumed it was some convoluted form of loyalty. He was the only person to treat his friend, he was the only person he trusted to treat his friend. In the end he won the battle and found himself sitting next to the unconscious detective, re-stitching the surgical wound and cleaning the wounds which had appeared during his fever-induced panic attacks. Eventually he finished, immediately crashing from tiredness bordering on exhaustion. His whole body flopped forwards, half of him resting on the bed before him, the other half still on the uncomfortable plastic chair. Dr Watson remained in that position until dawn.

He was so tired, oh so tired. But that wasn't right. He was never tired, especially not after waking up. Normally he'd want to get up, eager to see if Lestrade had phoned but he didn't feel like that either. What the hell was going on? His mind was slow, he knew it was, and it was frustrating. The details of his surrounding were only just beginning to be interpreted by his brain and he'd been awake, what, fifteen seconds? He was slow; he needed answers now, not when his usually sharp brain deigned to provide him with them. Finally, the details, he was in a hospital, obvious. There was someone by his side, John most likely. No, it was definitely John judging by the breathing but Mrs Hudson was there too. Ah yes, he eventually remembers. Appendicitis with a bad case of peritonitis, that took him far too long and tapped into far too many resources. Exhaustion was already clouding his judgement and ability to think, stupid transport interfering with his precious mind.

Sherlock prised his eyelids open, taking far more effort than it should have done. The bright light seared into his eyes forcing him to slam them shut straight away. It took a few attempts but finally he managed to keep his eyes open by which time John and Mrs Hudson had noticed and now stood in his line of sight. Mrs Hudson's hand soon found its way into his hair, brushing it with her dainty fingers, he seemed to have a vague recollection of this happening before but he couldn't quite place when that was. "Bored," he stated, the words flowing naturally from his mouth before he even realised what was happening. He saw John smile so he decided that he'd probably done something right. He felt something cold touch his dry lips and in response he opened his mouth, the ice cube was pressed into it. After a few minutes the ice cube had melted in Sherlock's mouth and it felt wonderful against his water-deprived throat.

"Go to sleep you idiot," John replied in a friendly tone of voice.

"Mm-kay."

"Sherlock!" John's voice resonated throughout the whole ward causing even the older doctors to cringe, thankful that they were not on the receiving end of that voice. However, the only two men who did not cringe were Sherlock and his brother. "You're fever broke about twelve hours ago, you are exhausted. You were really ill Sherlock, you still are ill. You cannot seriously be suggesting that I simply take you off antibiotics _already_ and then discharge you from the hospital. That would be utter stupidity and foolishness. You are not leaving yet, I won't let you." Sherlock simply glared at John. The power of the glare was diminished by the fact he was struggling to keep his eyes open and pain still plagued him, despite the strong pain killers.

"I think you should listen to your doctor Sherlock, just a couple more days at least," Mycroft stated, trying not to appear to condescending but failing.

"Shut up Mycroft!" Sherlock practically shouted, venom filling his voice. He tried, unsuccessfully to appear as if that little outburst had not worn him out but he still sunk into the pillows, John and Mycroft noticed.

"Please Sherlock," begged John, simply wanting what was best for his friend. "Just get some rest; we can discuss this again when you are more awake." He shook his head in a similar manner to a petulant child.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft started before being interrupted by his frustrated little brother.

"How's the diet? Putting on weight again I see."

"Losing it in fact."

"Not if the strained buttons of that brand new shirt you're wearing is anything to go by."

"Behave yourself Sherlock," John hissed. The detective looked at him, trying to scare him into backing down but by this time John was immune. When the younger man opened his mouth to reply one look from John forced him to shut it again, the doctor nodded in approval.

"You will listen to what Dr Watson tells you Sherlock," Mycroft stated, tired of trying to be diplomatic about the situation. He found diplomacy did not suit him.

"And what if I don't?" Mycroft began to twirl his umbrella out of habit

"Don't make me order you."

"I'd like to see you try."

"Very well. If you do not listen to him then I will monitor you here 24/7 and you will not leave until I believe you have made a full recovery."

"Impossible, you'll need to go to the office; you always have to go to the office."

"Worst case scenario, the office will come to me. You know I can make that happen at the drop of a hat. I'm being serious Sherlock; don't doubt me when I say this." Sherlock did not doubt his brother. He knew what happened to people who doubted Mycroft.

"Fine," he stated angrily closing his eyes, brows creased in frustration. It was a matter of seconds before he relaxed as he succumbed to the tempting call of sleep.

The young nurse stood trembling before the scrutinizing gaze of the bored detective. In her hands she held a tray of food which made her a prime target. The man was ok when the doctor fellow was around but now, for whatever reason, he was by himself which meant this was a whole other ball game. "Mr Holmes, I've bought you some food."

"Brought."

"Sorry, what?"

"Brought, you said bought. Mr Holmes, I've brought you some food."

"Oh, ok. Anyway…"

"Well, I supposed unless you paid for it yourself but somehow have my doubts."

"Quite correct…"

"Would you like to hear something interesting?"

"Um, ok."

"You're about twenty five years old, have a son and two daughters. Your daughters are identical twins. You are married to a well of businessman but he's planning on leaving you because you're dull. Unsurprising really, you should have seen it coming. Both of your parents are dead but your husband's parents took you in like one of their own. At first you were training as a teacher but then you switched to nursing. You miss Scotland, you lived there for ten years but your husband refused to move there so you got stuck. I recommend breaking up with him before he breaks up with you; he's got some pretty horrible stuff to say to you. The young woman stared at him for a moment, carefully placed the try on the table and left, doing her best not to burst into tears.

"What did you do?" asked Lestrade angrily having seen the nurse practically fleeing out of the room.

"I wasn't hungry."

"Eat, John ordered it especially for you. He'll be annoyed otherwise."

"Let him be annoyed, that's not my problem."

"_Sherlock," _came the voice of warning.

"Where's John?"

"Out, he'll be back in an hour or two."

"Get him now; I want to speak to him." With that he shut his eyes and fell asleep, leaving Lestrade's mouth hanging open in disbelief.

"When can I go back to Baker Street?"

"You're still ill Sherlock. You're still exhausted and I'm yet to see you eating anything without vomiting it up again a few minutes later. You're still doing your course of antibiotics for goodness sake."

"When am I going back? Give me a date and a time, I need to get back, my experiments will be ruined."

"I just started putting the papers through; I think they'll rush to get your papers through admin, you know, Mycroft's name is on there and they won't want to keep him waiting. You should be released in a few hours."

They sat on the bench in silence, Sherlock drinking in the fresh air greedily, ecstatic at the prospect of leaving the stuffy hospital room he'd been stuck in for a week. John was right, his transport was betraying him but he wouldn't tell anyone what he truly felt. There was pain, an awful lot of it but he thought it was worth it, just to get out of that dump. The one thing which saddened him was that he would not be allowed out on a case when he was still injured, much to the delight of Anderson and Donovan, he could hear them cheering through Lestrade's phone.

Finally a taxi pulled up and John awkwardly helped him into the back. It was cold in the car and Sherlock wrapped his jacket tightly around his slender frame. That was another thing; he was delighted at being able to wear his own clothes again. "221b Baker Street," he ordered and the driver sped away. It felt good to utter those words again. Shutting his eyes he settled back in the seat doing his best to catch up on sleep. It was weird, he was still so exhausted.

_**So I decided I would do a five parter. The last chapter (next chapter) will most likely be shorter than the rest. Basically John will confront Sherlock about the fact he did not mention any pain the moment it started. It will be a very hurt/comfort fchpter.**_

_**Do feel free to drop a review. And when I say feel free to I mean drop a review :P. I love reviews and so does my inbox, please keep us both happy. Pretty please, I'll love you forever. **_


	5. Chapter 5

_So, this has probably been the longest 'one-shot' ever to grace but we'll ignore that wee fact. The thing we should really be thinking about is that this is the last chapter __ I'd like to say one last thank you to everyone who has reviewed/favourite/is following this fic. It means a lot to know people are enjoying reading this as much as I am enjoying writing it. I have tried to reply to every review, I have a horrible feeling I did leave out one chapter though *cringes*. This was originally to stave off writer's block but I think it's escalated from there. Do remember, it may be the last chapter but I would still love to get reviews. It's the last chance to let me know what you think. _

_I do not own Sherlock. I would have thought this would be obvious because I have no idea why I would be sitting on this website when I could actually be writing scripts for Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. Also, if I did own Sherlock we would have seen sick Sherlock and caring John by now (I'm sure you would appreciate that as much as I would Prothoe ;)) Anyway, enough from me, on with the final chapter…_

**Understanding the Detective**

221b was like a warzone, well not quite, at least in a warzone there was somewhere to hide or retreat to. But there was nowhere to retreat to, he had to fight. There was a stand-off, metaphorically speaking, between him and Sherlock. John was sitting in his chair, Sherlock on his, and an omelette sat innocently on the coffee table between them. Neither man was willing to back down, to give in to the others wishes. Who knew a simple omelette would be the sole cause of world war three?

"Eat it Sherlock," John growled between clenched teeth.

"No," replied Sherlock, as if there was no room for debate, staring straight back at his friend. Absentmindedly he plucked gently at the strings of his violin with his spindly fingers.

"I told you to eat it," John tried again, forcing himself to remain calm.

"And I said no." John sighed and took in a slow deep breath before releasing it. "You're frustrated. Why?" the detective asked impatiently.

"Because you just spent the past week in hospital and you were very sick. You need the energy to complete the recovery process which means you have to damn well eat." Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a bemused manner.

"I may have been sick but the clue is in the tense John. I have _been_ sick, I _was_ in hospital. I am no longer sick and I am no longer in hospital. Therefore I am recovered and I need to think, not eat. Eating interferes with brain work."

"So does starving."

"Why do you even care John?" asked the detective, generally confused and intrigued. "It's not like this even affects you." The doctor's face seemed to contort into an expression which expressed both hurt and anger.

"Do you know what, I don't know why I even bother. Just forget it, I'm going out." With that John stood and strode out of the door, grabbing his jacket on the way out.

Sherlock just looked after him, utterly confused. Then again, this was something to do with emotion and John could be ever so emotional at times. That's probably what it was, just something as human as emotion. He'd be alright once he got back. His gaze slowly settled back on the omelette, the thing that had started this whole situation and Sherlock felt something stirring in his stomach. Could that actually be guilt? No, he didn't feel something as human as guilt so what could it be? This time Sherlock sighed, why did John have to get to him? Tentatively he placed the violin back down next to him and pulled the plate towards him. Cold egg slithered down his throat causing him to shudder, he wanted nothing more than to put the plate down and not have any more but he was doing this for John so he had to make a half decent effort.

"Oh," Sherlock muttered to himself after he had forced down half of the meal. "So it definitely was not guilt, what a relief." He practically threw the plate onto the coffee table and ran, as well as he could manage because he was still very sore, into the bathroom and emptied the contents of his stomach. He didn't make it to the toilet quite in time so half of it was all over the floor and down his front. The movement had exhausted his small store of energy and he collapsed to the floor, hoping John would return soon and that he would no longer be angry.

* * *

As a matter of fact John was still angry, not as angry as he had been but was definitely not happy. It was moments when Sherlock said things like that John doubted their friendship. Perhaps it was one sided; Sherlock was John's best friend but John was, what, Sherlock's assistant? Deep down he knew this not to be true, not after the distress Sherlock had been in when he thought Moriarty had killed him. Either way, John knew he could not spend long out. Sherlock was still unwell, no matter what he claimed, and would most likely get himself re-hospitalized if left to his own devices for too long.

The flat was silent as he ascended the stairs; the violin could not be heard resonating throughout the flat, and there was no crashing or muttering or anything that would indicate the detective was home. Perhaps he was sleeping, possible but unlikely. It was more likely Sherlock had taken advantage of John's absence and snuck out of the flat to find Lestrade to harass him for cases or something.

Cautiously he entered the flat to find it empty, his curiosity was piqued. He felt pretty much all his anger leave him when he saw the half empty plate, at least Sherlock had given it a go and that's all he'd really wanted in the first place. But the question of the detective's location still remained a mystery. "Sherlock!" John called. A slight groan which slightly resembled the word 'John' emanated from the bathroom and so the doctor made his way towards in. Not bothering to knock he barged in and felt sympathy twist at his heart. Maybe food wasn't the best idea after all. "Do you reckon you're going to be sick again?" John asked, keeping his voice neutral for his friend's sake. Sherlock shook his head. "Then why are you still on the floor?" The doctor already knew the answer but he wanted the detective to admit it. His unwillingness to confess any weakness was becoming a problem and they were going to have to discuss it.

Sherlock looked down, his hands apparently fascinating and John felt himself give in. He'd confront his friend once he was cleaned up. "We'll get you in the shower and I'll clean all this up. If I help you stand up will you manage from there?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure? I don't want to have to explain to Mycroft why you're back in the hospital so soon if you fall and hit your head and get a concussion."

"I'm sure." Satisfied with the answer John helped the detective to his feet then turned the shower on as Sherlock removed his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, leaving his boxers on to maintain whatever dignity he had left. The doctor tutted as he saw his friend's far too prominent bones but restrained himself; forcing himself to say nothing more on the subject.

Sherlock revelled as the hot water poured over him, transforming his porcelain skin into a bright shade of red. He wasn't one to take long showers though, so it wasn't long before he clambered out, towelled himself off and stumbled through to his bedroom. He didn't know if he was grateful of annoyed to find his clothes already laid out on the bed. As a general rule he hated people touching his possessions but on the other hand this was John and he knew he couldn't really be bothered rummaging around looking for clean clothes.

There was a slight tapping at the door as Sherlock was fighting with his dressing gown. "Come in," he said once he's managed to wrap the silk garment around his slender frame. "Are you ok?" asked John from the doorway.

"Well I don't recall vomiting being a sign of good health so what do you think?" Sherlock asked viciously, he was tired of all John's fussing and concern. John strengthened his stance, looking for all intents and purposes as if he were preparing for a fight; he was probably half expecting it considering it was Sherlock he was dealing with.

"Right, sofa or bed?" he demanded in his no-nonsense voice.

"Sofa, tea?" John nodded and headed off to the kitchen as Sherlock slowly made his way to the sofa.

A few minutes later John made his way back into the living room with one mug in each hand, he handed one to Sherlock whose hands were shaking ever so slightly. The moment Sherlock looked into the mug he had been given his expression morphed into one of disgust. "This isn't tea John."

"Good deduction, this is tea," the doctor countered lifting his mug as if to say cheers then taking a sip, enraging the detective even further.

"I wanted tea John. What the hell is this anyway? It looks like something you'd find in a festering wound."

"That is hot arrowroot; it's a drink my mother used to make me when I was younger if I was ill. It helps to prevent vomiting and will start to replenish any nutrients which you have lost. You can have tea once you have drunk that."

"I'm not a child."

"Then stop acting like one."

"Is there any scientific evidence that this works?"

"I don't know and frankly, I don't give a damn. Just drink it ok, it won't kill you."

The detective looked up in surprise, he hadn't anticipated that reaction. "What's wrong with you?" he asked sipping tentatively at the drink and John nodded at him as a way of thanks.

"Nothing, it's nothing. Look, we need to talk." He took another sip; it actually wasn't as bad as he'd anticipated.

"About what?"

"You're inability to look after yourself and unwillingness to ask for help when you need it." The mug stopped, half raised to Sherlock's lips.

"I can look after myself perfectly fine thank you very much," the younger man retorted, immediately on the defensive.

"Mhmm, really?"

"Yes, I managed perfectly fine by myself before you came along," he spat. John stared at him, shocked.

"What, do you want me to leave because all you have to do is ask and I'll be gone."

"No, no, no," Sherlock said hurriedly, a hint of panic injecting itself into his normally calm voice as he realised what he just said and that John meant every word he said. "That's not what I meant. All I was saying is that for most of my life I haven't known you but I still survived."

"I'm not entirely sure how you managed if I'm honest; you have shown some pretty self-destructive behaviour." The doctor felt it was probably best to move past his little half-threat and never speak of it again.

"Mycroft involved himself far too much for my liking," Sherlock confessed. "He would come and fill my fridge each week and then proceed to eat three quarters of the content by himself. It's no wonder he's so fat." John chuckled slightly.

"Did you finish the arrowroot?" he asked tenderly. Sherlock nodded and handed him the empty mug which John left to fill with tea.

"Ok, will you tell me now?" the older man asked as he sat down once again.

"Tell you what?"

"Well let's start off with why you didn't tell me there was something wrong when your symptoms first appeared."

"I didn't think it was that bad, just some mild discomfort I could ignore."

"And when they got bad?"

"You were out."

"No, they got bad before I went out, I'm sure of it. Stop lying to me and tell me the truth."

"I thought you had better things to do than worry about me."

"Sherlock, you should have told me. You almost died; if we had caught it earlier we could have avoided the secondary infection completely. You could probably be back solving cases by now if you hadn't. Look, I know that emotions are foreign to you but you have to understand that I feel emotion. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you, yes I know this sounds cliché but I don't care. You're my best friend Sherlock. I want to know if you're not feeling too well, especially if we can avoid another situation like this. Do you understand?"

"Why do you worry about me so much John?" asked Sherlock with a sort of child-like innocence.

"What? Why do I worry about you? Because you're my best friend, I already said that."

"Yes, but why does that mean you worry about me." John stared at him in disbelief.

"Are you saying that if the roles were reversed, and I was the one who had appendicitis, that you wouldn't worry about me?" He wasn't angry; he was just astonished at his friend's lack of understanding.

"Well of course I would but that's different."

"In what way?"

"Well, it'd be you. But nobody ever worries about me. Well, Father used to worry that I would embarrass him and I suppose Mycroft worries but apart from that…"

"Sherlock! Don't be ridiculous. I honestly have no idea what you are on about but I care about you and I worry about you. I don't give a damn whether or not you understand or agree with such sentiment because it won't change anything." There was a brief moment during which neither of them moved and then they both smiled for a reason neither of them was sure of.

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"Promise me if you think there's something wrong in the future you'll tell me."

"Yes, same goes for you."

"What, you'd actually help me if I was ill?"

"Well unless you tell me I won't be able to call Mrs Hudson." The two of them snickered before taking a sip of their tea. "John."

"Mm?"

"I'm bored."

* * *

It was another week before Sherlock got his first call to come and help on a case. He was tucking into the toast John had made him as the doctor looked on, pleased to see the detective was starting to regain some of the weight he had lost. He was not healthy, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he was slowly getting there. Sherlock's phone buzzed against the table and he grabbed it, toast forgotten.

"Sherlock Holmes."

_It's Lestrade; we've got a triple homicide. It looks pretty brutal and we've ID'd the three victims and done a brief background check, no obvious connections so far. Yet they were killed in the same room and there's nothing to indicate they were forced in the room against their will. Can you help?_

"Well of course I can, I'm not an idiot."

_That's not what I meant Sherlock, are you healthy enough. Give the phone to John, let me speak to him._

Instead of doing this he held his phone against his shoulder and turned to face the doctor "Triple homicide?" he asked hopefully. He was aware that if he did not get John's permission he would not be able to leave the flat. Either John would stop him himself or Mycroft's agents who were stationed 'inconspicuously' outside would stop him.

"Toast first," John replied sternly.

"It's fine, I'll be there shortly," Sherlock spoke into the phone.

_Are you sure that's ok? Did John say you were well enough?_

"Look, John will be with me so if you're that concerned wait until we get there and you can discuss it with _Dr Watson_. Where is the crime scene?"

_I'll send a car_. With that Lestrade hung up.

For once Sherlock was compliant and finished his toast before heading to his bedroom. A few minutes later he re-emerged in his purple shirt and suit, looking as good as new. He put his coat on as he hurried down the stairs, John in tow and they both slipped into the waiting police car. The detective's phone buzzed indicating an incoming text and he growled in frustration as he removed it from his pocket. "Mycroft," he practically seethed.

**Take care brother; do try not to annoy anyone.**

_Leave me alone and get a life, do try not to start another war._

* * *

That's it, it's finished and I thank everyone who had read this through. I'd just like to say the thing about the arrowroot works, that's what I have if I have a stomach bug, just a tip for anyone who doesn't know.

This fic may have now finished but I would still love a review. Actually, do you know what I would really love? If you would be kind enough to tell me what your favourite part of this fic was. I do love to know those sorts of things. Argh, I can't believe this is finished, now I have to go and remember what is going on in my other fics which I have abandoned whilst doing this one. Thank you to you all once again.


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